The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 28. Requisition

The blow fell on Thursday, two days after James J. Knox had signified his entire willingness to come to grips with both the United States and Great Britain. The idleness or activity of the great man’s boast was destined never to be tested in the crucible of the courts. For on Thursday morning, as Ellery lounged in his father’s office at Police Headquarters gazing out of the window at the sky most unhappily, Mercury in the form and figure of a weazened telegraph messenger delivered a communication which was to ally the bellicose one with the forces of law and order in no uncertain manner.

The telegram was signed by Knox, and conveyed a cryptic intelligence:

PLEASE HAVE PLAIN CLOTHESMAN PICK UP PACKET FROM ME WAITING AT THIRTY-THIRD STREET OFFICE WESTERN UNION STOP OBVIOUS REASON CANNOT COMMUNICATE WITH YOU BY MORE DIRECT MEANS.

They looked at each other. “Here’s a pretty howdy-do,” muttered the Inspector. “You don’t think he’s taking this way of sending that Leonardo back to us, do you, El?”

Ellery was frowning. “No, no,” he said impatiently. “It can’t be that. The Leonardo, if I recall correctly, is some four feet by six in size. Even if the canvas has been cut and rolled it would hardly be a “packet”. No, it’s something else. I’d advise you to attend to this at once, dad. Knox’s message strikes me as―well, peculiar.”

They waited in a sweat of anxiety while a detective went to the designated telegraph office. The man returned within the hour carrying a small parcel, unaddressed, and bearing Knox’s name in one corner. The old man tore it open. Inside there was an envelope with a letter, and another sheet of paper which proved to be a message from Knox to the Inspector―all done up in cardboard as if to disguise the contents of the packet. They read Knox’s note first―short, curt and businesslike. It ran:

Inspector Queen: Enclosed you will find an anonymous letter I received this morning through the regular mail. I am naturally afraid the writer may be watching, and I take this roundabout method of delivering the letter to you. What shall I do? Perhaps we can catch this man if we are circumspect. Obviously he is still unaware that I told you the whole story of the painting several weeks ago. J. J. K.

Knox’s note had been laboriously written in longhand. The letter in the envelope which Knox had enclosed was a small slip of white paper. The envelope was of a cheap and common variety, such as may be purchased for a penny in any neighbourhood stationery shop; and Knox’s address was typewritten. The letter had been routed through a midtown post-office, and its postmark revealed that it had been mailed probably the night before.

There was something peculiar about the sheet of paper inside the envelope on which the message to Knox had been typed. One whole edge of the paper presented a fuzzy ragged appearance―as if the original sheet had been twice the size and for some reason had been torn none too carefully down the middle.

But the Inspector did not stop to examine the paper itself; his old eyes were goggling at the typed message:

James J. Knox, Esq.: The writer of this note wants something from you, and you will give it to him without a murmur. To show you whom you are dealing with, look at the reverse side of this sheet―and you will find that I am writing on the back of half the promissory note which Khalkis gave Grimshaw in your presence that night several weeks ago . . . .

Ellery exclaimed aloud, and the Inspector ceased his oral reading to turn the sheet over with shaking fingers. It was incredible . . . but there it was―the scrawly large handwriting of Georg Khalkis.

“It’s half the promissory note, all right!” cried the Inspector. “Plain as the nose on your face! Torn down the middle for some reason―only half of it’s here, but there’s the Khalkis part of his signature, by jingo―”

“Queer,* muttered Ellery. “Go on, dad. What does the rest of the letter say?”

The Inspector licked dry lips as he turned the sheet over and resumed his reading:

You won’t be foolish enough to go with this to the police, because you have that stolen Leonardo and if you go to them you will have to confess the whole story of the respectable Mr. James J. Knox’s possession of a work of art cribbed from a British museum and worth a cool million. Laugh that off! I am going to milk you properly, Mr. Knox, and you will be given specific instructions soon as to the exact manner of the first milking, so to speak. If you show fight it will be just too bad, because I will see to it that the police learn of your possession of stolen goods.

The letter was unsigned. “Garrulous cuss, isn’t he?” murmured Ellery. “Well, I’ll be a firemen’s red hat,” said the Inspector, shaking his head. “He’s a cool one, whoever wrote that letter. Blackmailing Knox because he owns the stolen painting!” He put the letter cautiously on the desk and began to rub his hands with glee. “Well, son, we’ve got the rascal! Got him hog-tied. He thinks Knox can’t talk to us because we don’t know about this pesky business. And―”

Ellery nodded absently. “So it seems.” He eyed the sheet of paper in an enigmatic manner. “Nevertheless, it would be wise to verify Khalkis’s handwriting. This note is―I can’t tell you how important, dad.”

“Important!” chuckled the old man. “You’re sort of overstating it, aren’t you? Thomas! Where’s Thomas!” He ran to the door and crooked his finger at someone in the anteroom. Sergeant Velie thundered in. “Thomas, get that anonymous letter from the files―the one we got which told about Sloane and Grimshaw being brothers. And bring Miss Lambert back with you. Tell her to fetch some samples of Khalkis’s fist with her―she’s got a few, I think.”

Velie went away and returned shortly in the company of the sharp-featured young woman with the dash of grey in her black hair. He handed the Inspector a packet.

“Come in, Miss Lambert, come in,” said the Inspector. “Little job for you. Take a squint at this letter and compare it with the one you looked over some time ago.”

Una Lambert went silently to work. She compared the Khalkis handwriting on the reverse side of the paper with a sample she had brought with her. Then she examined the blackmail note under a powerful magnifying glass, frequently turning to the note Velie had brought for comparison. They waited impatiently for her decision.

She put down both notes at last. “The handwriting specimen on this new note is that of Mr. Khalkis. As for the typed notes, both were unquestionably typed on the same machine, Inspector, and probably by the same person.”

The Inspector and Ellery nodded. “Corroboration, at any rate,” said Ellery. “The author of the brothership note is undoubtedly our man.”

“Any details, Miss Lambert?” demanded the Inspector.

“Yes. As in the case of the first note, an Underwood full-size typewriter was used―the same machine. There is an astonishing dearth of internal evidence, however. Whoever typed both these notes was very careful to remove all traces of his personality.”

“We’re dealing with a clever criminal, Miss Lambert,” remarked Ellery dryly.

“No doubt. You see, we evaluate these things on several counts―spacing, margins, punctuation, the heaviness with which certain letters are struck, and so on. There has been a deliberate and successful effort here to eliminate marks of individuality. But one thing the writer could not disguise, and that was the physical characteristics of the type itself. Each character on a machine has its own personality, so to speak; and they’re virtually as distinctive as fingerprints. There’s no question but that both notes were written on the same machine, and I should say―although I won’t be responsible for guaranteeing it―that the same hands typed both of them, too.”

“We’ll accept your opinion,” grinned the Inspector, “in the proper spirit. Thanks, Miss Lambert . . . . Thomas, take this blackmail note down to the laboratories and have Jimmy give it the once-over for fingerprints. Although I suppose our chap is too cagey for that.”

Velie returned shortly bearing the note and a negative report. There were no fingerprints on the freshly typed side of the paper. On the reverse, however, where Georg Khalkis had scrawled his promissory note for Grimshaw, the fingerprint expert reported a distinct impression of one of Georg Khalkis’s fingers.

“That makes the promissory note authentic on two counts, handwriting and fingerprints,” said the Inspector with satisfaction. “Yes, my son, whoever typed this note on the reverse of the promissory note is our man―the man who killed Grimshaw and took the promissory note from his body.”

“At the very least,” murmured Ellery, ‘this confirms my deduction that Gilbert Sloane was murdered.”

“So it does. Let’s go over with this letter to Sampson’s office.”

The Queens found Sampson and Pepper closeted in the District Attorney’s private office. The Inspector triumphantly produced the new anonymous letter and transmitted the experts’ findings. The lawyers brightened at once, and the office became warm with the promise of an early―and correct―solution of the case.

“One thing is sure,” said Sampson. “You keep your flat-feet out of this, Q. Now there’ll be another note or message of some kind from the chap who sent this one. We want somebody on the scene when that happens. If your Number Twelves go pounding about Knox’s shebang, they might scare off our bird.”

“There’s something in that, Henry,” confessed the Inspector.

“How about me, Chief?” asked Pepper eagerly.

“Fine. Just the man. Go up there and wait for developments.” The District Attorney smiled very unpleasantly. “We’ll be killing two birds with one stone in this way, Q.

We’ll nab the writer of the note―and we’ll be able, by having our own man in Knox’s house, to keep tabs on that damned painting!”

Ellery chuckled. “Sampson, your hand. In self-defence I’ll have to cultivate Baptista’s shrewd philosophy. “For to cunning men,” he said, “I will be very kind!”

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